.The Tension.

It’s been nearly a year. Nearly a year since we landed in Addis and emptied suitcases and threw ourselves into making this place our home. It has been nearly a year since we have begun the laborious process of establishing an NGO here, so that we can actually DO what we were called to do. It has been a year of God growing us, changing us, and pursuing us in remarkable and extravagant ways. It has not been a year without hardships and tears and questioning, but looking back it has been one of the best years that we have ever experienced. We have seen Jesus like never before. We have seen his transforming power, and we have witnessed the Kingdom break into daily life.

We came here desperate to put off any arrogance that we had in preconceived ideas about this culture and about the “right way to do things”. We prayed that God would humble us and make us learners in this journey. He answered our prayers over and over. We thought that the “right way” to do missions was to do business as missions. It is such a beautiful idea, and one that we felt compelled to flesh out. It also, honestly, sounds so much safer and comfortable to be able to support our mission with a business and not have to rely on churches and individuals to support us. We were eager and sold-out on this model, and prayed up, certain that this is how God was leading us. Only to have God literally slam every single door to every single business opportunity here in Addis in our faces.

Every time a door slammed, we heard His gentle whisper, trust Me.

It soon became evident that our ministry plan for street children was wildly different and wildly counter-culture, and radically going to take all of our efforts, all of our energy and focus in order to be done in a way that will bring glory to God. And the truth is, we came for the boys not a business. The business was an aside – it was just supposed to support us, but God has very clearly let us know that at this time, He wants us to trust Him for the support. So here we sit, fully reliant on people across the globe from us. To be authentic, that is scary, and it gets scarier as Jesus continues to whisper follow Me, trust Me.

I felt confident that In order to keep support and gain support, we need to tell stories. We need to tell you about the lives that Jesus has touched this past year. The sad stories, the sad photographs, they tug at people’s hearts, and they share the real need that is here, and I really, really bought into the necessity of them. But sometime this year in the midst of the stories and photos, the pause button was jammed on, and I started seeing things differently and questioning my motives with throwing up a photo on social media of a person in a horribly sad, vulnerable position – perhaps even a person we were able to help out of that position. Something wasn’t sitting right with me. My heart was beginning to feel uneasy. It started to feel a little bit like exploitation, and even objectification. But I knew that it worked. I knew that people across the ocean would be more likely to make a financial donation if I shared the photos of people suffering and their sad stories. If I shared about the man who tried to hang himself and about literally cutting down the rope and tucking him safely into family, about the teenage girl who came home so drunk every night that she had to be nearly carried up the stairs and undressed and cleaned up and placed into bed, about the hours upon hours spent in a hospital and then the deafening screams that came with AIDS diagnosis, about the baby who died from AIDS because we were just too late, and the father who refuses to have her brother tested, because he just cannot bare to know. About the woman who mourns for her murdered son. About the teenage boy who never knew his mother and endures beatings from his grandmother and meals at our table because at least then he gets fed. And even sharing this is making me want to delete the whole post. Because these are REAL PEOPLE, and their story is not my story to tell. I have no right.

And then in the midst of this wrestling one day, our son came to us with trembling lips and big eyes and said, “please do not post photos of street kids sleeping on the streets. It is wrong.” We were taken aback. Street kids is who God has called us to, telling their hard stories seemed like a great way to raise awareness and honestly, money, in order to be able to serve them. But this son who came to us that day, so visibly distraught had at one time, for several years, been one of those boys. He had had countless foreigners come and take his photo, photos of him when he was most dejected, most vulnerable, and still very, very much a child. He had been enrolled in numerous NGOs and his photos were distributed and used and profited on. And he never benefitted from it, and even years later it still hurts to have been exploited at the most vulnerable and challenging time in his life. We listen to this child when he speaks of this, because he knows. God has used his voice to mold and shape many of our dreams for our future ministry with street children. His voice is the same reason that we cannot do a drop-in center and feed street kids only to turn them back out onto the streets, because this exact kind of thing hurt our child more than it helped. It is why we have to pursue family-based care starting with a small number. It is why we cannot do behavioral modification but rather passionate pursuit of the heart of children. Although, there are good ministries right here in Addis with very different philosophies and practices that do great things, we have chosen to join in in a way that looks a bit different.  

So, we are trying to learn a new way. We are trying to be creative with how we share and what we share. It is why so many of our posts lately just focus on our day-to-day family life here in Ethiopia. It is so NOT because there is nothing to share, or we have not seen Jesus in people’s lives, but rather because we are still trying to figure this out. The use of photos and stories of disadvantaged people and vulnerable children to illustrate what we are doing, and what we need to raise money for risks exploiting humans - humans made in the image of God. For right now, we have decided not to take that risk. This creates quite a tension for us as missionaries. It is important that we share what Jesus is doing. People are supporting us, and they need to know how their support is impacting the Kingdom. But I think that people, whether in poverty, whether vulnerable and in crisis or not, have a right to share or not share their story. It is their choice. It is not mine. It is what we have always clung to with our boys who came to us via adoption. Their story is their story for when and if they are ever ready to share it with the world.

This is an ongoing conversation. We continue to press into Jesus and into the people He brings to us, and we continue this dance of knowing when and how to share with you. I believe that the answer is creating an avenue for their own voices in their own time and of their own free will. How? I don’t know. What does it look like? I have no idea. But there has to be a way, and I am desperate to figure it out. We still have so far to go, and so much to learn, but until then we press on keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus 

.For Her on Mother's Day.

He is hers, and he is mine. He is ours. Her incredible loss was my incredible gift. And while I cannot imagine my world without him, poverty robbed her of life with him. There is not a single day that goes by that I do not realize this. It is a gut check every single morning. It makes for very complicated feelings in my heart. What if the roles were reversed? What if it was I who was there, struggling with starvation and preventable diseases, struggling with poverty and injustice squelching out my dreams? What if she was the one gifted with raising my children?

She is my link to his past, and we are eternally entwined. She is the only one who knows the way those first bumps, kicks, and wriggles felt inside of her swollen belly. And I am the one who knows the tears he cries for her, and how her pain is reflected in his heart. She knows the anguish of laboring him to life; while I know the anguish of laboring him here. She has all of his yesterdays, the ones I will never, ever know. I have all of his tomorrows, the ones she will never, ever know. She knows the dreams and prayers she breathed over his newborn face. She knows his first cry and first gasp for breath, and I wonder even in those first moments, if she knew that their time together was fleeting - flowing through her fingertips like fine grains of sand. I wonder if she breathed in his curls a little longer. I wonder if her tears came hot and fast as she wondered where the food would come from, and how she could feed herself in order to feed her son. I wonder if she was scared. I know her heart was breaking. I wonder if she held him tight to her chest and pleaded for his life.

With Jamesy's first steps my heart soared and then peaked at the knowing that she was missing it. I squealed for both of us.

When Habi scored that first soccer goal for his school team, my eyes burned with tears. She wasn't here to shake that cowbell and make a wild scene for our boy. So I did for both of us.

When the doctor told us Jamesy could see, rivers of scorching tears trickled the curves of my cheeks, and I begged God to let her know that our boy with the shaky gorgeous eyes could SEE.

When Habi's blood tests all came out clear and negative, I wanted to dance with joy for her, knowing that she knew more than anyone in the world what a miracle that was.

With every new word that Jamesy gains, and every time his deep brown eyes find mine and he says Mama, my heart skips a beat, and I cherish it for both of us.

With every I love you, Mommy, I reassure Habi of my love and her love. Two women fiercely in love with the same boy.

Every time I tuck them in at night, stroke their curls, kiss their lids, I linger longer for her. Every milestone, accomplishment, late night talk, hug, kiss, kitchen dance, giggle is all soaked up for both of us. She is a part of them and a part of me. Two different Ethiopian women and then American me. Two brave, courageous women that poverty has stolen what was most precious to them. And while adoption is the most beautiful experience I have ever been inside of, it is also the most horrific and ugly as it is mottled with so much pain, so much loss, so much injustice. This is not how it should be. Poverty should not rob a child of its mother and a mother of its child, and while by the time I entered the picture for my boys it was too late, and the only thing left to do was what we did, for many children and mothers living in poverty, it is not too late. It is not too late to give these mommies the chance to experience first steps, first giggles, first day of school, bedtime kisses and prayers. It is not too late to allow a child to grow up in his or her beautiful culture and be adored by birth family and surrounded with love. As a mother to two birth children and two children born only in my heart, this is something I am passionate about. While adoption is viable and necessary in cases like my sons', the best and most ideal situation is to keep children with their birth families when possible- despite poverty. Poverty is not a reason to separate families.

This Mother's Day, rather than giving that special mother in your life flowers or jewelry, why not give her the gift of supporting mothers and children surrounded by poverty, so that they can stay and flourish together? Jesus can offer these moms hope that life can be different. I want to be part of this difference.

This is why we are so passionate about keeping families together in Ethiopia. There are some fantastic organizations that are keeping families together, and we have the hope, dream, and prayer that Mercy Branch Inc., while partnering with God and His Kingdom, will be equally fantastic at putting broken families back together. In the simplest terms, this is why Mercy Branch Inc. exists. We think that family is so important that we are devoting our lives to this.

My heart is for these mothers - these brave, beautiful, courageous mothers, who daily battle things that I could never dream of battling, all while I sit in my safe, comfortable home sipping coffee. Today I want you to think about these mothers - sisters across the world. What if it was you? Let's link arms and fight for these women to have a chance to love their babies to adulthood. Let's not close our eyes, turn our heads, and be silent.

Today I write this for her and for her. To Habi's first mommy and to Jamesy's first mommy  - Happy Mother's Day - you are forever in my heart. Every time I look into his eyes, I see you there. I love him for the both of us, and he will know of your love in my touch, in my words, and in my heart for him. This is for you and for you.

.For Her.

He is hers, and he is mine. He is ours. Her incredible loss was my incredible gift. And while I cannot imagine my world without him, poverty robbed her of life with him. There is not a single day that goes by that I do not realize this. It is a gut check every single morning. It makes for very complicated feelings in my heart. What if the roles were reversed? What if it was I who was there, struggling with starvation and preventable diseases, struggling with poverty and injustice squelching out my dreams? What if she was the one gifted with raising my children?

She is my link to his past, and we are eternally entwined. She is the only one who knows the way those first bumps, kicks, and wriggles felt inside of her swollen belly. And I am the one who knows the tears he cries for her, and how her pain is reflected in his heart. She knows the anguish of laboring him to life; while I know the anguish of laboring him here. She has all of his yesterdays, the ones I will never, ever know. I have all of his tomorrows, the ones she will never, ever know. She knows the dreams and prayers she breathed over his newborn face. She knows his first cry and first gasp for breath, and I wonder even in those first moments, if she knew that their time together was fleeting - flowing through her fingertips like fine grains of sand. I wonder if she breathed in his curls a little longer. I wonder if her tears came hot and fast as she wondered where the food would come from, and how she could feed herself in order to feed her son. I wonder if she was scared. I know her heart was breaking. I wonder if she held him tight to her chest and pleaded for his life.

With Jamesy's first steps my heart soared and then peaked at the knowing that she was missing it. I squealed for both of us.

When Habi scored that first soccer goal for his school team, my eyes burned with tears. She wasn't here to shake that cowbell and make a wild scene for our boy. So I did for both of us.

When the doctor told us Jamesy could see, rivers of scorching tears trickled the curves of my cheeks, and I begged God to let her know that our boy with the shaky gorgeous eyes could SEE.

When Habi's blood tests all came out clear and negative, I wanted to dance with joy for her, knowing that she knew more than anyone in the world what a miracle that was.

With every new word that Jamesy gains, and every time his deep brown eyes find mine and he says Mama, my heart skips a beat, and I cherish it for both of us.

With every I love you, Mommy, I reassure Habi of my love and her love. Two women fiercely in love with the same boy.

Every time I tuck them in at night, stroke their curls, kiss their lids, I linger longer for her. Every milestone, accomplishment, late night talk, hug, kiss, kitchen dance, giggle is all soaked up for both of us. She is a part of them and a part of me. Two different Ethiopian women and then American me. Two brave, courageous women that poverty has stolen what was most precious to them. And while adoption is the most beautiful experience I have ever been inside of, it is also the most horrific and ugly as it is mottled with so much pain, so much loss, so much injustice. This is not how it should be. Poverty should not rob a child of its mother and a mother of its child, and while by the time I entered the picture for my boys it was too late, and the only thing left to do was what we did, for many children and mothers living in poverty, it is not too late. It is not too late to give these mommies the chance to experience first steps, first giggles, first day of school, bedtime kisses and prayers. It is not too late to allow a child to grow up in his or her beautiful culture and be adored by birth family and surrounded with love. As a mother to two birth children and two children born only in my heart, this is something I am passionate about. While adoption is viable and necessary in cases like my sons', the best and most ideal situation is to keep children with their birth families when possible- despite poverty. Poverty is not a reason to separate families.

This Mother's Day, rather than giving that special mother in your life flowers or jewelry, why not give them the gift of supporting mothers and children surrounded by poverty, so that they can stay and flourish together? It is as simple as making a one time donation to Compassion in honor of the special mom in your life, or partner with Compassion's Child Survival Program in ongoing support. Jesus can offer these moms hope that life can be different. I want to be part of this difference.

My heart is for these mothers - these brave, beautiful, courageous mothers, who daily battle things that I could never dream of battling, all while I sit in my safe, comfortable home sipping coffee. Today I want you to think about these mothers - sisters across the world. What if it was you? Let's link arms and fight for these women to have a chance to love their babies to adulthood. Let's not close our eyes, turn our heads, and be silent.

Today I write this for her and for her. To Habi's first mommy and to Jamesy's first mommy  - Happy Mother's Day - you are forever in my heart. Every time I look into his eyes, I see you there. I love him for the both of us, and he will know of your love in my touch, in my words, and in my heart for him. This is for you and for you.

.Her Name is Gerlie.

It will be two years ago this March. That was when I first saw her face - those big beautiful eyes, the solemn expression with pouty lips, the brave way her shoulders squared on her teeny, tiny body. She had a red heart on her picture. This indicated that she had been waiting for at least six months for a sponsor. Six months while I sat in my comfortable home, oblivious to her needs in the Philippines. She seemed to jump out of our computer screen, bigger than life, and beg for us to sponsor her. It was Cadi who ultimately put her finger on her photo. That's her she said. And she was. She was the one that God was pointing us to.

She is Gerlie; a sweet little six year old from the Philippines. She was waiting for a sponsor through Compassion International. She was waiting for someone to choose her, for someone to care about her needs, for someone to show her the love of Jesus in a tangible way. Compassion's tag line reads "releasing children from poverty in Jesus' name". But what they failed to mention is what would happen to me - the sponsor. Gerlie was instrumental in releasing our family from materialism. We were blinded by it, sucked into the insatiable desire for more, bigger, better. But she was one of the first people that God used to open our eyes to the world and the needs around us. Through Gerlie we began to understand things in light of eternity, and our material greed slowly began to fade. It's not completely gone, shamefully, we continue to need God to place "Gerlie's" in our path - we probably always will. We are slowly learning that the only "thing" we can take with us to heaven is people - people we have reached for Jesus Christ. Gerlie taught us that many times the first step to sharing Jesus with someone is to meet their physical needs -nourish their body and then their soul.

We sponsored her for over a year with about a dozen letters between us. Gerlie was too young to write to us, so she would color pictures, and her mom would write to me. Gerlie's mom was a young widow with a tremendous amount of courage, who had recently lost her husband. She worked very hard to support her little family. I am certain that I have no idea or true understanding of how hard she really worked. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be a mom with the survival of your children literally hanging in the balance. We got word from Compassion early this year that Gerlie and her mom were moving out of Compassion's reach. Her mom was actually given the opportunity to start a business, which she believed would better sustain her family. She was counselled by Compassion, and I do believe from what they communicated with us made a wise decision. We were devastated to lose contact with this precious little girl who had changed so much of our lives, but we are hopeful for their future. We quickly chose another little girl to care for through Compassion, but there is not a day that goes by that Gerlie's name is not lifted up in prayer in our home.

I am passionate about Compassion International and the wonderful ministry they have with children and their families. Recently a team from Missions in Action visited a Compassion project in Valenzuela City, Philippines - north of the capital city - Manila. The families who call this area home are living in flooded villages. The poverty in this area is devastating, and yet the joy of Jesus is clearly evident. It brought tears to my eyes to see this place so near to where our Gerlie lived. Take a few moments out of your day and peek into what life is like for these precious people by watching this video.



A couple dollars changes a family and gives them hope. Christmas is a time to reflect on the hope we were given in the coming of tiny baby Jesus. Out of the overflow of our hearts this Christmas, perhaps God is leading us - you and me - to sponsor a Compassion child and give that child hope - hope found only in Jesus Christ. Go to Compassion's website and scroll through the children there. Children made in the image of God. Children beloved by God that He sent His precious son, Jesus, for. This Christmas give the gift of hope.

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.I Refuse To Forget.

As the spinning that has been my world for the past year begins to slow and a new rhythm rises in our home, I am refusing to forget.

There are memories that are burned into my mind and bruised into my heart, and sometimes I still do not know how to cope with them. God wanted me to know and to see, but what do I do with that knowing?

I have these photographs and these mental images that totally take the breath out of me. I am exhausted of living in an American church culture that mostly ignores Micah 6:8. The silence from our pews and from from our pulpits is deafening when contrasted with the truth.

Maybe we, the ones who have been called to be the hands and feet of Jesus - Christians, are gagged and silenced by fear. Maybe we do not think much about what the gospel demands when it comes to orphans, and to the poor, to injustice because it is scary if we allow oursleves to really know.

But hasn't our fear been crucified with Christ? It seems to me that as followers of Jesus Christ we should be filling this gap.

The very essence of the gospel is Jesus loving us enough to bleed and die for us. It was worth it to him to sacrifice Himself - He held nothing back - in order to completely erase our title of orphan and make us His family.

Is it worth it to me?

Then why do I keep holding on to the things - the temporal - the insignificant?

And why am I holding back?

Does the gospel really demand something from me besides comfortable, North American christianity?

I refuse to forget, and I pray that one day the knowing will penetrate the depths of my heart and turn into doing.


"Our love of comfort & pursuit of American dream is what kills. It's not starvation & lack of clean water."-Kimberly Smith #summit7

Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering (Isaiah 53:4a).

What is my response to His example?
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.Searching for the Middle.

43 days ago I did something so horrible, that I never predicted I would have to be faced with. I kissed my second born son, the one born in my heart, goodbye and placed him in the arms of strangers. Then, not only did I turn and walk away - not only did I leave him, but I also left his country and flew an ocean away from him. And I literally feel as if I left half my heart behind with him. I am functioning here only half-heartedly, and in some ways that has numbed the hurt of the reality of what I have done.

It has been much harder than I ever expected to come back home, and not all of it is because of Jamesy. Africa - Ethiopia - burrowed itself into my heart and leaked into my blood, and I will never be the same. Much of what I saw was hard for us here in America to even fathom, and most of us cannot unless we experience it first hand. I now know that. My photographs, Jim's videos, and certainly not my words - none of it resonates like seeing it with one's own eyes. My memories are not only filled with the cruel truth that is life for many in Ethiopia, it is also filled with a sea of brown faces that were filled with JOY. A joy that did not come from possessions, status, or circumstances. We were met with kindness, some of the most genuine kindness that I have ever experienced. A kindness that is not found here. We experienced and witnessed community and relationships so full, authentic, and vibrant it left me feeling empty when I compared it to what I know to be true of relationships here.

I miss the beautiful people, the children, the babies, my street boy, our Ethiopian guides, the other adopting families who understood the bruising of our hearts for a country a world away from our everyday lives.

I miss seeing with new eyes and feeling as if I was truly Kingdom living - really making a difference.

I miss the coffee ceremonies and the popcorn and the sunrise on the roof of our guest house, and our cook with the kind, soft brown eyes, and the way the clouds looked so puffy and white against the dirty but beautiful city of Addis.

Not a day goes by without the remembering, the knowing, that my life here is far from normal for most of the world.

Yet, I am still terrified that I will somehow forget.

And I have yet to learn how to live in the middle.

Jim and I have talked a lot about how to go on from here. We are both changed, and we want this change to be permanent. We never want to go back to who we once were. But how do we live in the middle? Obviously poverty is not the answer. We do not feel as if God is calling us to a life of poverty - living homeless on the streets so that we can truly know and understand what we saw in Ethiopia . However, living in excess is not the answer either. Both of these are so extreme, and I believe neither is at God's heart for our life. But what measuring stick do we use for excess - certainly not America's. Yes, I know God's. But what is that? What does that look like? Is it different for every believer. I think it is different for us. I think it will be more extreme for us. It has to be, because we were given that amazing blessing to see the truth, and I pray that truth lives in our heart and our every decision and every purchase.

I do not think that God wants me to walk around Walmart, to yard sale - just because I might need something there, to shop on ebay without remembering the children I saw eating scraps from garbage on the side of the street wearing their entire wardrobe in rags that hung on their bones.

Is there a way to live in the middle and not forget?


Is there a way to live in the middle and continue to have the scales ripped from eyes?

I don't know, and that terrifies me, because maybe truly the middle is not where God has called me to live.

I am called to be an imitator of Jesus. Did Jesus live in the middle?


Open my eyes to see the wonderful truths in your instructions. Psalm 119:18

.Always on my Mind.

He's there. Crouched in the corners of my mind and tucked into the crevices of my heart. I didn't expect him to follow me so tightly home. I thought I would only be carrying one brown-eyed boy in my memory, but it's two that haunt me when my head begs sleep from my pillow. And it is the second one who is constant. Jamesy, oh I do miss him in an indescribably painful way, but at the same time his position is secure, so I can cling to that knowing. But that boy, who calls the streets of Addis home, makes me come undone. He makes me see differently - better. But it hurts more than I can bare at times.

I thought I had it figured out. I thought God was asking me to pray big, to pray the impossible, and believe that God could allow us to adopt him - an unadoptable street boy. Despite the protests of my husband (simply not wanting me to set my eyes on something completely futile and have my heart totally devastated), I prayed and pleaded and planned that somehow soon another brown-eyed boy - a boy I truly feel a motherly connection to - would become my son. But I think God is leading me another way. Bits and pieces of a brainstorm, a crazy scheme are formulating in my mind. It will take God to piece it together, but I am pleading in this direction for now.

We bought him shoes today. I have no idea if they are the right size, but I pray that they are or that he can sell them and have the money. I am filling a back pack for him. I am not sure of what. The shoes and maybe clothes and food, and a letter from me and a photo of us. He gave me his best when his dirty little hand thrust the beaded bracelet at me. I wish I could give him the world - a home. I want to tell him of Jesus and the hope that he can find in him. I am praying for this boy's redemption - both physical and spiritual.

He's always on my mind. He was there today as we shopped for diapers and wipes. It was his face I saw when we walked into a mall. I thought I needed to buy Jamesy a coming-home outfit. It was our first time trying to shop after Africa. And we couldn't do it. I wanted to vomit as I thought how all of it was frivolous, unnecessary, and how much money I had wasted over my life time in such a place on items that were not needed. Even in a thrift store I wrestled over a $2.00 pair of shoes that I did not need. I kept thinking about the other pairs that sat in my closet and the thousands of people all over the world that have none. How do I reconcile that? And how do I reconcile the fact that I bought them? When do I go back to normal? Or do I want to? I just don't care about the stuff anymore. All I want is to be in Africa and empty the rest of my life into those people and show them hope in Jesus. And I am angry that God is not calling us there.

But I am begging Him to do something big through us, through me. I'm just waiting for the next move and thinking about two little brown-eyed boys whom I lost my heart to. How can they be the least of these the way they occupy the most of my mind?

.I Love my Hubby.

He preached at our church this past Sunday, and for the first time was able to boldly share with our whole church some of the things God has started to open our eyes to. We are praying that maybe it will be a catalyst for our church. Wouldn't that be incredible?!

If you are interested in hearing what he shared click here.

I have a lot more to share, so I will be back soon!



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